


hate him not, for my sake

by litmarlowe



Category: TAZ Amnesty - Fandom, The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, TAZ Amnesty, The Gang Steal an Oscar, hints of kind of bottom Ned but idk, kiss centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 11:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17445911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/litmarlowe/pseuds/litmarlowe
Summary: LA heat, tight spaces, and the high of a stolen Oscar.





	hate him not, for my sake

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic in literally years! I started before episode 20 and finished only just after — blame that for any inconsistencies of character. any britishisms in Ned's speech are my fault  
> (also RIP in pieces the line 'if this Oscar was stolen from anyone, it was Jake Gyllenhaal' which i had to cut.)

There’s barely any cover in these glass Hollywood houses, but they make it. Ned and Boyd are tightly packed against the only slither of a corner in the place, where the wall attaching it to the hillside meets perpendicular with a small stone screen. It’s a gap the size of a coffin, hence the feel of Boyd’s T-shirt on Ned’s low buttoned chest; knees against knees, thighs against thighs, Boyd’s saucer hands on his shoulders to keep him against the wall. The Los Angeles heat makes it tighter. It confines and constricts; Ned’s head is woozy. All that exists in the universe is the hum of an engine and the pressure of Boyd’s palms.

‘He gone yet?’

‘Shh, Ned.’

Boyd’s been leaning back ever so slightly every two minutes to check if the sports car (‘what make?’ ‘a red one’) sat purring in the driveway has moved. He checks again. Shakes his head.

‘Mosche.’

‘Hm?’

Boyd’s figure pulls back into position - closer, tighter. The muscles of his forearms are clenching, arms either side of Ned’s shoulders for balance. He’d been ignoring it. He’s been looking at the grease burn scars down his arms (tattoos from a boring British youth serving chips and egging cars) and the ink in between. Looking there, he can ignore the churning of his gut at the clenched muscles. Boyd’s arms are thick roots. His veins and ligaments sculpt impossible peaks and troughs. And fuck, is he chiselled. He’s a goddamn cliché. Forget Clooney, Boyd could be the lead in some gangster movie.

‘What are you staring at?’

Ned’s been trying not to think about it because, well, he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be thinking about how his friend’s resilient stubble would feel against his neck, or his chest, or lower. This is the guy who knows the most about him in the world but he still calls him ‘Ned’ for a reason. There is no real honour amongst thieves. One day, Boyd will leave. Maybe with all his money, maybe with just a sour taste in their mouths. He’ll cheat him or he’ll rat him out. He’ll leave him when the cops come running. Ned knows because they’re the same; he’d do the same. But if Ned didn’t do things he shouldn’t do he wouldn’t be doing anything. Kissing is just kissing. Sex is just sex. Everything’s happening for short lived kicks and, well, if he’s not thinking about it, it’s best to live spontaneously.

‘ _Ned_ , get your shit _together.’_

If Ned was a proper law-abiding citizen he wouldn’t be here. If Ned was a tougher criminal he’d be here alone and armed. Ned doesn’t belong anywhere but in this middle ground with Boyd. So fuck it.  

Boyd’s face is rough because he’s shit at shaving. Ned would do it for him, if he asked; an old straight razor, white cream on a pale neck, running carefully around his Adam’s apple. He thinks about the sound of bristles on skin as he reaches up towards Boyd. Then the warmness of his cranium (he’s touching him now), his hair pricking against Ned’s fingertips as he cranes his neck forward too and oh, okay, something _is_ happening here. Boyd’s big hands are moving down to his waist before their lips even meet and he wants to laugh, he wants to sing and use that booming voice of his. They’re millimetres apart, moving through gloopy humid air. They’re made lethargic by the whole uncertainty of the thing and the hot breath between then and - of course.

The raucous roar of an engine cuts through it all.

Boyd pulls away first, but he’s grinning; Ned’s left in a daze. So the hand stays on his hip as Boyd yanks him forward out of it. Of course, Boyd’s right to be smiling. Behind their wall is a scene of splendour, mirages of extravagant paintings and relics of glamour behind the glass walls. He feels it, the same pricking at his fingertips has he had holding Boyd. Itchy fingers.

‘Well, then, _mate,’_ Boyd announces with a flourish of his hands. ‘Shall we go win ourselves an Oscar?’

 

* * *

 

Ned Chichane is holding an Oscar. It’s swathed in his jacket, padded and protected from the squealing stop Boyd had just brought the Continental to. So now he’s stood by the door cradling it to his chest, feeling its corners and head dig into his diaphragm. Pressure, sharp and grounding, against the lightheaded buzzing sensation. Ned Chichane is holding an Oscar. Ned [Insert Joke Middle Name Here] Chicane.

‘You gonna stand there singing lullabies to that thing or come inside with me?’

Boyd is beaming, humming with the same heady energy that sits beneath Ned’s collarbone. His body is ten times bigger, extending past himself. Larger than life, is Boyd. He waltzes into Ned and tugs him forward by his elbow; he nudges Ned forward, walking backwards in front - all Fred Astaire grace and a Hollywood grin. Those sharks’ teeth, crooked from bar brawls and bedazzled with gold. Cheesy bastard.

‘Well, you know, I’ve got to think of a speech!’

‘Who says you’re the winner?’

‘Of course I am, Mosche. The cameras love me.’

Ned shifts the Oscar to his left arm and takes a sweeping bow, throwing his arm out with a flamboyant flourish. He can’t help finishing by throwing his head back in a sonorous laugh, and when he pulls his head up Boyd’s grin is gone, but he’s smiling. He’s smiling all over.

‘Yeah,’ Boyd quips robotically, as though he’s been struck and stunned, acting on instinct. But the ribbing is automatic anyway ‘Security cameras, maybe. Get your arse inside, Ned. Maybe I’ll let you give me that speech.’

 

* * *

 

Neither of them have a key, or much cash, or legal permission to be there. Their Oscar’s a sure-fire ticket to jail though, and in a  busy city like this it’s best to lay low - so they’re squatting. Just until the buzz dies down, Ned had promised. LA squatting should be classy. Maybe with huge white corridors and golden furniture, azure pools still fine to swim in, and cable. Ned missed cable. What can he say? He’s a dreamer.

‘This isn’t going to be The Holiday, Ned,’

‘Shut it, Kate Winslet.’

They don’t have a key but they have Ned. He wanders over to the back entrance of the house they’ve picked - empty, a new unfinished build. It’s big, it’s flashy, but it’s on the end of a long sad row. No one will bother to check. Ned reassures himself of this as plucks a lockpick out of his hair - Boyd snorts, but hey, he’s not Ned ‘Always Prepared’ Chicane for nothing.

‘Go on then. This should be a piece of piss for an _old pro_ like you.’

Boyd’s voice is close. It’s so close Ned can feel the hiss of air against his jaw, his deep drawl reverberating down his spine.

‘Who you calling old?’

Another snort, a huff of cool air onto Ned’s damp, sun exposed neck. The LA heat is still fierce and sticky and he can feel Boyd’s hot shoulder and the press of his side against his own. Ned breathes. He bends down to reach the lock and tries to not think about the last time he felt Boyd’s breath like that. Just for five minutes. He’s definitely coming back to it.

Those minutes pass luxuriously under the California sun. It’s all luxurious here; even breaking into Clooney’s was slower, easier, just rolling out their well-oiled routine. Their drive back was hedonistic, windows open to bask in their sun kissed accomplishment. Boyd might have rushed him over to the door but there was none of his usual tenseness or manic energy. Still, the lock clicks. The door swings open with just a tap of his shoe and they’re in, out of the fuzzy heat and into the comfort of sharp blues and whites - concrete and stone, cool to the touch the second Ned’s back is immediately backed against the nearest wall.

‘Ah. So you remember earlier.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, Ned, I remember you trying to fucking kiss me.’

‘Right. And so now we’re -’

‘Are going to pick up where we left off.’

‘Because one of us should check this place out first -’

‘ _Ned.’_

Ned stops, blinks. Swallows at the intensity of Boyd’s command. And then his lips are on his again, pushing Ned back. Broad fingertips bypass his hips this time to ruck up his shirt, pads hovering over and then pressing against the soft bumps where his hip bone meets his stomach on either side. It’s hot - well everything here is - but an addictive heat. A possessive heat. Ned’s hands go up to broad shoulder blades, feeling their firmness and strength cloaked in Boyd’s flimsy T-shirt. Boyd’s body presses closer, more demanding; his left hand leaves to steady himself against the wall. Ned wants to whine at the loss – that or Boyd slipping to nip at the slip of bare skin on his neck. He’s silenced by new pressure; the pressing of Boyd’s knee between his leg. It pins him, moves him, stirs the latent heat that’s been blooming there. And for all this is brilliant, awesome - all the adjectives in Ned’s head and a hell of a lot more expletives - Ned has to stop. He has to stop to laugh that great blossoming laugh of his again.

‘What?’ There’s that shiteating grin again. Ned wants to wipe it off that bastard’s face.

‘So you do want it then?’

‘Shut the hell up, Ned, and help me find us a sofa.’

**Author's Note:**

> ironically i had to rush this because i have too much creative writing work for uni to do to spend any longer on it! and i panicked for like 10 mins that this wasn't in MLA format until i remembered this wasn't my colonialism essay. english student rights!! so yeah ty if you've got this far
> 
> also thank you to basil for his emotional support DMs, hours of Boyd headcanons, and general McElroy crimes xx he writes the most gorgeous fic (meowrails on here), plus his art is to die for (@albaaca_art on twitter)


End file.
